


Past Broken

by BreezySkye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean, Demon!Dean, Go forth and enjoy angst, Gratuitous use of dashes, M/M, this is one of the many fics wherein Dean is a demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:32:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreezySkye/pseuds/BreezySkye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam had, predictably, freaked out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Broken

Sam had, predictably, freaked out. 

Halfway past drunk and well on his way to desperation, Sam's curses toward Crowley and God and everything in-between were tripping past his slurring mouth while he sat empty-eyed and shattered in front of Dean's-- old Dean's, human Dean's, weak Dean's-- hastily drawn sigil, the blood on the concrete curling up lazily as it flaked away. It took five seconds of staring at Dean crosseyed before Sam bolted upward with a curse; and then Dean-- new Dean, strong Dean-- was being crushed into a hug that smelled like alcohol and fabric softener and pathetic human weakness. 

He could practically smell the emotions rolling off of Sam in waves-- pain and relief and stress and fear and disbelief and hopelessness, with the iron tang of blood hazing over it all. 

It made him want to sneeze. 

He stood stock-still, waiting for Sam to drop his arms and step back. Less of a step, more of a stumble, and he never dropped his arms. Instead, his hands stayed curled into Dean's shoulders, holding him at arms length. 

"Dean," the taller man breathed, eyes full of hope searching Dean's impassive face. "Dean, are you--" 

Sam jerked back with a yell when their eyes met, and Dean tried desperately not to smirk as he crossed his arms. 

"Heya, Sammy."

 

* * *

 

So yeah, Sam had freaked out. The shock must have snapped him partway sober, because Dean had to clap a hand over his mouth when he started reciting an exorcism. The words had been accompanied with a new feeling; a spark of something tugging and painful, like Sam had been yanking on a giant fishhook that was buried in his guts.

Now Dean was in the garage, glaring at the shiny black paint of the Impala from where he stood, tension scrawled across his body, in the demon's trap he'd forgotten existed.

The demon's trap he himself had put there.

The demon's trap he himself had put there for the sole purpose of over-protecting his baby, even in the safe confines of the bunker.

Hah. Irony.

Fuck.

"Fuck." He swore loudly. It echoed around the empty space, amplified and reverberated. He glared up at the dull red sigil on the ceiling as if it were the cause of all of his worldly problems. Which, at the moment, it was.

His fists clenched and unclenched, and something sick and twisting and fundamentally weak curled up behind his ribcage, tight and unwelcome. He shoved it back down, and it felt sticky and sludgy and human. Although the feeling was tampered down, it didn't go away-- sizzling and burning him like fire, like acid, like the salt Sam had forced in his mouth before closing off and swiftly leaving the room. That had been two hours ago, and Dean could still taste the bitter, awful taste of the rock salt in the back of his throat.

So with the memory of salt in his mouth and blessed water to wash it down, Dean sat on the ground and waited.

 

* * *

 

It had taken Sam a half an hour to realize Dean was missing from the room he'd been locked in and then proceed to locate Dean in the garage, sitting patiently on the cold concrete. Sam's eyes locked on him as soon as the door swung open, and he halted in the doorway, staring.

Dean flashed him a grin and gestured at the ceiling. "Mind helping me out, Sammy? I'm, uh, a little stuck."

Sam's eyes followed the motion of Dean's hand, and then he looked back down at his brother-- brows furrowed and mouth set in a thin line. "Don't call me that."

Dean opened his arms wide and shrugged loosely. "Whatever you say, Sammy."

If Sam's eyebrows pulled down any further, he'd lose his eyes back there, Dean thought absently. But either way, Sam was walking brusquely towards the other end of the room, towards a ladder. Dean laughed, and Sam shuddered to a stop.

"What's so funny?" Sam's voice sounded flat, and the coil in his chest threatened to unfurl.

He angrily shoved it down. "I know you have a gun on you, Sam." No use antagonizing him with nicknames until Dean was safely out of the trap. "Just shoot the damn paint." For a second, Dean thought Sam was going to ignore him and leave him sitting there-- a thought prompted by the nauseatingly persistent weakness he felt tugging on his mind, trying to remind him of things that were no longer true. But then Sam was turning slowly, a gun glinting silver in hand-- and it wasn't pointed at the ceiling.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Really, Sam? Gonna shoot me? That's not the little brother I remember dragging me out of the filthy homeless camp a few hours ago." And god, had it been filthy. Disgusting humans, crammed together and uncaring about anything but themselves and--

And--

He'd been a human just a few hours ago, too.

As soon as that thought slipped past the crumpled mess of humanity still managing to thrum away somewhere so deep inside himself he couldn't reach it, Sam pulled the trigger.

The noise was explosive in the echoing expanse of the garage, and then Dean could move again. He stood and stretched, back popping before he gave Sam another grin. "Thanks, Sa--" His brother was already gone.

 

* * *

 

Fuck.

Fuck fuck shit fuck damn fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

Dean brought the crowbar down on the hood of the Impala for the twentieth time, feeling that little shred of weakness wither as the metal squealed and dented, bending upward at the edges.

God, it felt good.

There were gashes in the metal, dented lines and silver swaths cutting through the beaten-down black that used to be a flawless paint job. The windows were cracked and broken, shards of glass clinging to the frames like a dying man desperate for his god.

Hah.

Fuck.

Why had he demon-proofed the Impala? Why did he ever think that was a good idea? What could have ever compelled him to line the engine with dried salt; to douse the paint in holy water; to carve sigils into metal and leather and the wood in the trunk? What would have made Dean do such a stupid, moronic, paranoid, human thing? Fuck humans. Fuck salt. Fuck cars, and paint, and driving and fuck Dean Winchester.

Fuck it all.

He brought down the crowbar with renewed vigor, smashing it as he cursed in unintelligible noises of rage and pain and loss. He whaled on the metal husk, whaled on the lingering humanity inside of him that was telling him to _don't_ and to _stop_  and to _put down the crowbar, Dean, please_.

He paused midswing when he realized that last part had been said out loud.

Dean froze in his stance, the only thing that moved was his mouth-- curling up at the corners into a smirk. His hands opened wide as he obediently dropped the crowbar; it dropped onto the twisted remains of the impala before bouncing to the ground. The sound of warm metal hitting cold concrete clanged loudly in the sudden silence.

"Castiel." Dean didn't turn around.

"Dean--" He could hear Castiel swallow. He could hear the sorry excuse for an angel shuffle closer, unsure. "Metatron said-- Dean-- Dean, look at me." The angel's voice switched from watery to sharp, commanding.

Dean briefly contemplated retrieving his crowbar and teaching the angel that he listened to nobody, not anymore.

"Dean."

Dean turned.

They both flinched at the same time. Castiel was-- bright, so bright, Dean could hardly see the painfully familiar planes of his face due to the bluish light emanating from behind Castiel's eyes, behind his throat, behind him, around him, above him. The weakness inside him cried out in shock and need and sorrow, and he tampered it down with a twist of his lips and a cock of his brow.

"Hey there, Cas. When'd you become a flashlight?"

Castiel was at a loss for words, and Dean-- the new Dean, the Dean that wanted to plunge his hands into the glow above the angel's head and rip it apart-- reveled in the confusion, in the fear, in the shimmering sadness that took over the angel's posture and his face and his light. "...I looked for you." The angel started haltingly. "In heaven. After-- after Metatron said you were, you were--" He swallowed audibly. "After, I looked for you."

Dean's grin felt less smug, less triumphant. "Find anything good?" He snarked. Something inside him wavered when Castiel's light-- Castiel's grace?-- darkened.

"Your eyes--" Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Haven't gotten the hang of controlling them yet."

"Your... Dean, your soul--"

His sharp bark of a laugh started them both. "What soul, angel? The one you dragged from hell in the first place? Because that's not here anymore."

Castiel drew in a sharp breath. "Dean--"

"Dean's not in right now." He replied smoothly, coldly, taking a step forward. Castiel took a scrambling step backward, grace flickering, and Dean could have laughed at that except it wasn't funny.

"Dean," Castiel started, voice firm but for a small tremble. "I know that it's you. I can see you, see your... Soul. What's left of it."

Dean felt his face contort into an angry scowl. This time when he stepped forward, Castiel didn't move. "Shut up." His voice was clipped, short with barely-veiled fury. The weakness inside of him unwillingly pulled him towards Castiel, reaching outward like a weed in a sidewalk crack, desperate for sunlight. He forced himself to stop moving.

Something in Castiel's voice softened. "You can hear me, can't you?"

Dean's lip twitched.

Castiel reached forward. "Dean, you're still there. You, I can see you. We can still fix this, Dean, just--"

Dean realized he was halfway to taking the angel's hand before he was done talking. He forced it back to his side. "Fuck you." He spat, angry, seven different ways to furious.

Castiel's grace flared. "Damnit Dean!" His voice was raspy-- Dean realized he had been crying, and a wave of guilt tore through the part of him that wanted to reach back, wanted to say yes, wanted-- wanted. "We can fix this!"

Dean wanted Castiel, and he wanted him vulnerable and weak and gone. "Oh, angel." He laced his words with sympathy, and was close enough to Castiel that he could feel the angel stiffen at his words. "This is so far past broken."


End file.
